Monday, August 18, 2008

This summer has been so wonderful in large part because of Anita and Ron who have welcomed me every weekend to their cottage at Salerno Lake. There have been so many blissful hours: of swimming and feasting, silence and laughter; of sitting with a mug of coffee and watching the morning mist settle like a golden dust on the lake; of listening to Bach and getting into passionate discussions about politics and religion; of drinking endless glasses of red wine and watching the moon cast a golden ribbon of light across the water; listening to the haunting cry of a loon parting the night; and yes of skinny dipping at midnight by the glow of the stars and sprinting to warm ourselves by the fire ;-) !!

Isn't it just adorable? In this little cabin on the highway between Kinmount and Salerno Lake, is this wonderful bookstore that calls itself The World's Smallest Bookstore -- no bigger than the size of a small room, it has an unbelievable collection of books -- many of my favorites of classical and contemporary Canadian and world literature with a smattering of non-fiction, from Eliott and Thoreau to Mistry and Laurence (and hardcover too) for only $3! On the way out you can pick up a cute sheet entitled '!!!Why I love Books!!!' It reads as follows:

1) Books are silent.

2) Books do not require hydro.

3) Books do not interrupt

4) Books open easily -- no switches or remotes

5) Books can be shut up easily anytime

6) Books cannot be offended

7) Books do not talk back

8) Books do not demand T.L.C. -- but get it anyway.

9) Books do not require food or water

10) Books will not feel neglected

11) Books will not send you on a guilt trip if you lose interest or ignore them

12) Books never require medical attention

13) Books do not have commercials

14) A book does not go into a snit if you look at another book

15) A book won't mind if you are reading more than book at a time.

I can add so many more lines to this sheet, and those of you who have seen our place know that we at least get dibs on being the second smallest bookstore in the world. Of late Shami and I have been dreaming about opening our own bookstore one day...Can you think of a better job? Stocking a store with books you love, reading, and sharing that love with others that come through the door...:-)

Sunday, August 10, 2008

Yesterday Shami and I went to watch Amal, a new Canadian-Indian film, about a rickshaw driver in New Delhi. It is a story about a dying man of wealth who seeks to find one goodman in Delhi (for those of you who are from Delhi, you'll know that people in Delhi - from politicians to rickshaw drivers - are notorious for finding innovative ways of ripping you off, though for many, it is wholly justified considering their economic plight). He finds Amal Kumar, a rickshaw driver whom he believes embodies the integrity and goodness he has not witnessed elsewhere in all the riches of the world. He decides on a last whim to leave his entire inheritance to Amal. Though the story is in some ways clicheed and predictable, it brought me to tears. I think this is because it has a wonderful way of touching on the fact that the poor are often the wealthiest among us, in the spirit, generosity and hope they show in the face of the trying and unjust hand fate has dealt them. It reminded me so much of my dear times in Banaras, of the children and women I met in the slums, of their courage, warmth, and generosity of spirit. I don't want to romanticize poverty, yet I believe there is something in measuring your wealth in the people you know and love, in whittling away the pretensions that sometimes come with privilege and living life with humility and graciousness, in treasuring the simple joys of life - whether it be sitting and drinking a chai on the ghat, or watching a diya cast on silent waters.

It is a musical piece entitled, 'Spem in Alium', composed by Tallis, and sung by 40-member strong choir. Around this simple wooden hall was an installation created by Janet Cardiff that featured forty speakers set in a circle, one for each voice in the choir ... it is ten minutes long but you can hear the voices, forty of them, each one beautiful on its own, but collectively they weave a tapestry of light and music, a cathedral of sound, that seems to carry to the heavens, and for those ten minutes you can almost feel your feet lift off the ground. I don't think I will ever forget the smile on the woman's face across from me, the one wearing a flowered dress or the way the old man in shorts clasped his hands as though he were praying.... and then the silence that follows the music is somehow flawless, the silence that is the other side of music, its shadow. Shami once said that he thinks the greatest music is silence, and that the function of music is to teach you to listen to silence...today I felt I could hear silence.

Janet Cardiff said she wanted people to ‘climb inside’ the music, to connect with the separate voices. She wanted to examine the way sound could sculpt a space and the way the audience could choose a path through this physical yet virtual space.

The original Latin title translates as My hope has always and only been in You, God of Israel, an apt title somehow for it conveys the devotion and love in this music, the way you can stand in a humble hall for a few minutes on any given day, and for those few minutes glimpse heaven....

ps To see what the installation physically looked like when it was featured at the MoMA in New York, see the following link:http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B9YkgwesT1Y&feature=related)

Tuesday, May 20, 2008

"What one must paint is the image of resemblance — if thought is to become visible in the world." (Rene Magritte)

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"On The Threshold of Liberty"Rene Magritte, 1937

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What do you see? What does it mean to be on the threshold of liberty?

Will one realize 'liberty' by exploding the panel of representations and experiencing the sky, a forest, etc. for itself, unmediated by their representations? But if art can be nothing more than representation, can it ever lead to the actualization of liberty?

Or since the cannon is pointing to the left side of the house, could it suggest that liberty as represented by the elements of nature (i.e. the sky, forest, wood, and a woman) are somehow endangered?

I found it fascinating to view the painting at first without the title and then with it -- Would one begin to think about liberty without the explicit guidance of the painter in the form of the title? Can thought therefore be made visible without the help of the word? The title places constraints on the imagination and in turn on our interpretation of the painting, for it is hard not to think of the painting as it relates to the title. Is Magritte helping the viewer understand the painting or is he deconstructing the use of image and word in conjunction with one another? Is he leading us astray by giving the painting that very title, because he knows of the natural precedence that is given to the word over the image?

Saturday, May 17, 2008

*"The stone that the builder refused, will always be the head cornerstone.” (Ernesto Che Guevara)

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[Child pointing to the wall]: "Hey, that's Jesus!"

*Black woman [to Shami]: Salaam alekum. Black woman [to me]: Are you Muslim?Black woman [to Shami]: No, she's not Muslim. She'd wear a hijab.Black woman [to me]: You Hindu?Me: NoBlack woman: Who do you believe in? What God will take you to heaven?Me: All of them.Black woman: No, you can't do that. [Pointing to Shami] You pick one man don't you? You have to pick one leader too, someone who will show you the way. Whose your leader?Me: GandhiBlack woman: Mahatma Gandhi?Me: smileBlack woman: Do you pray to him?

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"You have to be someone" (Bob Marley)

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Kensington Market is a veritable melange of grunge, pot, resistance, and spice; where derelict walls bear brazen graffiti and the revolutionary spirits of Che Guevara and Bob Marley still linger; where rickshaws festooned with plastic carnations stand in front of chic French bistros; and the smell of fresh baked empanadas, ground espresso, jerk chicken, and organic chocolate collide; where on warm afternoons the gritty accents of the young mingle with smoky Latino vocals and the rum-laced musings of wise men from Barbados. If you are lucky enough, a peek into a shopper's jute bag can yield surprising wonders: vanilla beans from Madagascar, bracelets made of Icelandic whale bone, dried chillies from Peru, a take-away menu from the Hungarian Thai, a wedge of Swiss Emmenthal, tapioca from Trinidad, couscous from Israel, a rasta hat, and a pamphlet on becoming a Trotyskian revolutionary...

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"At the risk of seeming ridiculous, let me say that the true revolutionary is guided by a great feeling of love. It is impossible to think of a genuine revolutionary lacking this quality." (Ernesto Che Guevara)

Friday, May 16, 2008

They will see me, you say, as I undo your sari.You speak of the silhouettes dancing in their glass cage:charming men with salty accents and lace-less shoes,women fragrant with wild poppies and feverish dreams.You can see them, they can’t see you, I say, but I hear your sudden and pitiful weeping.

I silence their eyes.

I’m ready, you say.

You are resplendentin a hibiscus sari and peacock-blue bathroom slippers.In your hands a ragged bundle, enclosed by a towel and a safety pin:old petticoats; a half finished bottle of sherry; a plastic crucifix;and the preacher’s tattered Bible, your father’s, that now bears the faded picture of your child, my mother,pressed into the Book of Psalms. A crushed rose at chapter sixty-three.

She reminds me of God’s kindness, you once said,and that glorious night with your grandpa, you added with a wink. God bless him.

You no longer remember his name,but you can summon his presence at will:moonlight spilling off his rough shoulders;the scent of summer nightsand revolution warm on his limbs; your humble room filledwith misty songs of dreamers, and sweet-breathed rebels.

I’m ready, you say.

I remember that one night,your startled voice fracturing the darknessI thought you had fallen, but you were singing those verses marked by my mother’s countenance,a plea, a wounded whimper in the fading light.

Didn’t you hear me, darling?Where are you off to, I ask.Home.

This is your home.

Yet you speak of coconut trees, and worlds stilled in green waters,kisses blown on crooked bridges, and fishes roasting over open fires…

I am home, home at last.

You sit on a bamboo bench,your hair abandoned on your shoulders.In the powdery light of dawnyour cheek gathers the shadow of leaves,your voice a ribbon trailing in the breeze.

O God, thou art my God, early will I seek thee, my flesh longeth for thee in a dry and thirsty land where no water is;to see thy power and thy glory, so as I have seen thee in the sanctuary.Because thy loving kindness is better than life, my lips shall praise thee. Thus will I bless thee while I live: I will lift up my hands in thy name.

Wednesday, May 14, 2008

"Don't you hear that screaming all around you? The screaming men call silence."

Nearly a quarter of a century after its first release, Werner Herzog's masterpiece 'Every Man for Himself and God Against All', better known to some as 'The Enigma of Kaspar Hauser', the title adopted for the film's American release, remains one of the most poignant, thought-provoking and haunting examinations of the human condition on film. The film 'Kaspar Hauser' is based on the true story of a mysterious foundling (Kaspar Hauser) abandoned and discovered in the town square of Nuremberg in the 19th century, with a letter stating that he desired to be a cavalryman. Kaspar Hauser spoke merely a single sentence, and it was later discovered that he was raised in a dungeon with scanty light for seventeen years, and no knowledge of the outside world -- he had never seen a house, a tree, or even another human being (though he was left bread and water at night by a mysteriously cloaked gentleman). To this day, the reasons as to why he was kept in a dungeon, then abandoned in a town square and eventually murdered remain an enigma, though curious theories and speculation about his origins and tragic fate abound.

However, perhaps what is most intriguing is the hold the story of Kaspar Hauser has had on the human imagination for years to follow, and the way it has catalyzed social and anthropological debate as well as some of the most thought-provoking creative responses in the form of books, film, music and art. Werner Herzog's film is concerned with depicting the interaction between Kaspar Hauser, a man he portrays as being close to 'nature', (i.e. someone as yet untouched by the manacles of society, someone whose actions are governed by instinct as opposed to the dictates of norm and expectation), who confronts a culture at once appalled and deeply fascinated by the aberration that he represents, and which seeks to to bring him back into its fold by introducing him to language, reasoned thought, and the rules of etiquette and art. Yet through his sympathetic depiction of Kaspar's struggle and his resistance to being moulded by society, Herzog questions the very foundations of society, as well as the supposed moral and intellectual superiority of those who consider themselves to be the guardians of civilization and hence, truth. One cannot help but wonder if the people who try to reform Kaspar are not, after all, the ones who are in some way deformed and in need of reform; whether somehow in his innocence - or what may equally be termed his ignorance of the world - Kaspar does not give expression to the true, untarnished nature of human existence, and therefore, if he might not have some greater access to the truth. The death of Kaspar Hausar at the end of the film as well the concomitant dissection of his body in order to determine the physiological cause of his deviance, suggests not only the ultimate and tragic triumph of society over both the individual and nature, but also equally the need for society to classify 'difference' as somehow 'disorder'. For the medicalization of Kaspar's 'difference' at the end through the the employment of the empirical method and the language of reason not only renders society's 'neutral' judgment on him as somehow immune to questioning, but exemplifies its ultimate control over him even in death.

However, it is interesting to note that Kaspar Hauser himself does not question the very society that seeks to control him and eventually causes his demise, rather it is ironically the way Werner Herzog (a product of civilization himself) documents the conflict between Kaspar Hauser and society that makes us question the latter. And this begs the question as to how possible it is to question a system whose internal logic you are not grounded in or somehow understand? Must reason alone be employed to counter the arguments put forth by reason?

Yet I think what is most remarkable about this film is its belief that through the examination of an anomaly in Kaspar Hauser, i.e. an outsider, we begin to approach the truth of our own humanity and society, the truth of our origins and state of being. For are prophets not often the outcastes who sit at the margins of society, holding a mirror that force us to look at ourselves, at a vision at once awe-inspiring and terrible. For in that moment of recognition, as in the moment when one might first encounter God, is there not an equal amount of fear and joy, might we not wonder if in fact that screaming all around us is not what men call silence...

Wednesday, May 7, 2008

Though Obama was victorious in the North Carolina primaries last night and lost by a slim margin in Indiana (May 6th, 2008), the political pundits cite troubling exit polls that suggest that supporters of Hilary Clinton are far more likely to vote for the Republican nominee John McCain if Barack Obama were to be the democratic nominee, than supporters of Barack Obama are to vote for Hilary Clinton. According to exit polls in Indiana, 50% of Clinton's supporters claimed that they would NOT back Obama in a general election; even in North Carolina where Obama was successful last night, 55% of Clinton's supporters say that they would deny him support in a general election despite the fact that Clinton and Obama concur on issues of policy far more than they do with their Republican rival McCain. Though Clinton commanded 60% of the white vote in North Carolina, Obama held a mere 39%. However, Obama was victorious because of the overwhelming support of a sizeable black community in North Carolina (nearly 91% of African Americans in North Carolina voted for him).

Unfortunately, these statistics suggest that the democratic primaries have increasingly become about the politics of identity rather than about the political vision of the respective candidates, with African Americans overwhelmingly supporting Obama, and white women overwhelmingly supporting Clinton. People are invested in this election like never before, certainly because of two brilliant and inspiring candidates, but also equally because the elections have forced people across the U.S. to examine themselves in the mirror, to ask that question that has always fascinated humankind: Who are we? Yet Obama has tried to reframe this debate by suggesting that it is less about who we are individually as people, and rather about our shared values and aspirations for the future. The real question according to Obama is: Where are we going? He has become a spokesman of what I like to think of as the 'politics of humanity', a grassroots-driven politics that seeks to transcend divisions by being grounded in commonly held values. In this understanding of politics, perhaps, lies Obama's genius, for in his attempt to define a vision for tomorrow based on the commonly held human values of peace, equality, justice, and freedom, he is ultimately addressing the question of 'Who we are'. For how can the question of the fate of a nation (i.e. where they are going) be severed from the identity of its people (i.e. who they are)?

Yet, as we know, the politics of identity can also be used to divisive ends, and it is probable, given the toxic political climate of the past month, that Hilary Clinton is likely to use the numbers above to suggest that she would be the best candidate to ironically 'unite' the democratic party and defeat McCain in the general election. Perhaps there is some truth to the fact that America is not yet ready for a black president as some suggest, and perhaps Obama will not get the nomination this August. Yet I believe that the legacy of Obama's campaign of hope will endure, that there is victory even in potential defeat, and it is as George Edward Woodberry once remarked,'defeat is not the worst of failures. Not to have tried is the true failure."

For during the course of this primary contest alone, Obama has transformed politics into a grassroots-based peoples movement, one that has engaged thousands of disenfranchised people otherwise at the margins of the political spectrum, and ignited the burning ideals of the youth who dare to dream of a better future. He has spoken with humility and endearing eloquence about the core values that unite us as human beings, about how politics is about 'people' rather than the politician or the state, that 'we' are in fact the true agents of social change. And perhaps it is a testament as much to the greatness of humanity as much as to Obama, that people -- the young and old, black, white, brown, Muslim, Catholic, Jew, the poor and the rich can stand as one and with their ardent voices raised to the heavens cry -- "Yes we Can!"